Fickle Death
by Silver-White Wings
Summary: No one knew exactly how they would die. No one. Not even a Death God could ever fully understand it. Alan-centric one-shot


**A/N: **For me and my usual mindset, this is supremely emo, but that's almost cliché in Alan-centric fics. Heh...

Anyway, I won't say too much. For once. I've been trying harder lately...

Enjoy! :D

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><p><strong>Fickle Death<strong>

No one knew exactly how they were going to die. It was one of the many things in life that best remained secret.

No one knew. No one except for Alan.

He knew exactly how he was going to die. He may not have known exactly _when_, but he knew it was soon; very soon. The pain of the attacks was getting greater by the day, and they were getting shockingly more frequent.

He knew exactly what would happen.

It would start off as a normal attack; his heart give one loud thump in warning, and he would double over, clutching at his chest as if that would make it any better. He would begin to gasp, cough and splutter in pain, then try and bear it until it passed.

But it would not pass.

And all of his senses would be thrashed in the onslaught.

He would hear his own wretched screaming and coughing, piercing his otherwise numb ears. He wouldn't hear the footsteps of whoever might rush to help him; he wouldn't hear their voices calling out, asking if he was okay, telling him to hold on, or even telling someone else to get help. He would hear none of it. He would only hear his own pathetic, fearful screaming voice, and he would be ashamed of it.

He would taste blood as he bit down hard on his tongue and lips in a futile attempt to stop those screams from escaping him. The warm, rusty substance would fill his mouth, and he would cough and splutter even more so. He would maybe even vomit, and taste the foul bile on his already bloody tongue.

He would see practically nothing. His vision would blur over as his glasses fly off his face, and dark clouds would blotch out what little vision was left. Little lights would appear within the darkness, flashing in and out of existence like little stars.

He would smell almost the same as what he would taste, but with an undertone. As a Shinigami, he knew well the smell of imminent death. And that was what he would smell; death. Looming over him, threatening to consume him, but seemingly enjoying the rupture of his senses.

And finally, he would feel. He would feel everything. He would feel his screams ripping up his throat, every cough shaking him, and at the same time, piercing his eardrums like finely sharpened needles. He would feel his skin splitting under his teeth, and blood dribbling down his chin. He would feel the heaving of his stomach, and the scorch of stomach acid rushing up his throat, and feel his larynx burning from overuse. His eyes would grow hot, and he would feel something wet at the inside corners, as it pools up and spills over. His head would spin as the lights dance across his vision and disorient him.

But all of it would simply be the icing on his crudely metaphorical cake of misery, loneliness and mortality.

It would be nothing compared to the crippling, shredding, heaving pain in his chest and along his arms. Being impaled with six flaming spears would be preferable to the thorns ripping their way across – through – his lungs, reaching out to his most vital body organ and coiling around it. The thorns that resided in his veins and arteries would twist in excitement, knowing that their goal was near. His heart would beat desperately, fighting against the thorns and shaking his ribcages, causing hairline cracks. Minor, but still there. The thorns, impatient, would fling all of their gained power into one last movement, stabbing through the heart, bursting through the ribs, tearing their way to the surface…

…Where a single black rose would bloom. Beautiful, yet sinister. There it would perch, surrounded by a sea of red upon the body that had once belonged to _him._

_He,_ Alan Humphries, would then be nothing more but a stained, mangled, desolate corpse.

Through the whole thing, he would be alone, drowning in it all.

And he knew it. He knew it long before it would ever happen.

_Even so… _he thought to himself as he leaned over the bathroom sink, his hands on either side of the basin, his chest still aching. _Even so… why…_ he raised his head and glowered at his wretched appearance in the mirror. _Why do these tears keep coming?_

He pushed himself angrily away from the basin, removing his glasses and wiping his eyes furiously. He turned on the tap, and splashed cold water over his face, which helped a great deal. He dried himself off, and replaced his glasses. Sighing, he left the bathroom, and wondered whether his next attack would be the last.

He was certain of how he was going to die. If that was so, did that mean he wasn't dying now? Slashed by a death scythe, strength and will leaving him faster than his blood was.

"Alan!" called a cracked, slightly faint voice. His vision coming in and out of focus, he found a familiar pair of green eyes for the last time. Everything swam before him, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his body went limp.

In the end, he really _hadn't_ known how he was going to die. No one did, after all.

_Death… really is fickle,_ he thought to himself, as he fell into its waiting mouth and was devoured.


End file.
